Off we go then, driving down to Land’s End with the family. It’s Saturday, June 2nd and the weather is set fair for at least the first few days of my walk. Liz, Alex and Calum have packed for an overnight stop at Land’s End youth hostel, whereas I have my rucksack packed ready for my first six days, to last until the family come to meet me again on Friday with swap-outs and top-ups. On the way we stop at Launceston for a picnic lunch and drive into what looks like a small car park; in fact it’s a large multi-storey space burrowed into the hillside, but located conveniently close to the castle. Here the boys can run around and let off steam after we’ve eaten lunch perched on a low wall of ruins in the grounds. We stop in Penzance for coffee and a spot of shopping, including some rubber tips for my Trekrite hiking stick, on which the metal spike has pierced the original tip. Bizarrely they’re on a two-for-one offer, when they’re already in packs of two anyway, so you get four. I tell the checkout lad that I’ll no doubt have enough rubber tips to last the rest of my life. We then proceed via the Minack Theatre for a preview of the precipitous paths I’ll encounter tomorrow on day one, when I’ll walk from Land’s End to Penzance. Then it’s on to our destination via Cornwall’s notoriously narrow lanes, prompting Liz to request that I drive from the youth hostel to Land’s End tomorrow, leaving her to navigate on wider roads for her return journey. She intends to take the boys for a session at the Lido in Penzance on the way home.
At the hostel we meet a group of cyclists due to start their journey to John o’ Groats tomorrow. We switch on the telly in the visitors’ lounge to watch the friendly game between England and Nigeria as part of the World Cup warm-up, then opt for an evening meal at the hostel rather than negotiate the lanes again.
Here’s the view from the hostel:
Next morning, I check and double-check my kit, deciding at the last moment, in view of the favourable weather forecast, to risk going without packing gaiters. Apparently there could be rain on Thursday, but then I’d be able to swap out wet kit when I see Liz on Friday. I fill water containers and re-load the car boot, then set about devouring a multi-course YHA breakfast. Heading off for the Land’s End complex as soon as we’re finished, we have to overtake all the end-to-end cyclists en route. We say our farewells in the car park, then off I go, via the good old signpost, which is in demand by LEJOGers even at this hour, before 9am on a Sunday.
Liz and the boys stay waving for ages, as usual. I don’t have the same mixed sense of exhiliration and trepidation as when I first left the family for a solo, multi-day hike, at Crowden in 2015, I suppose because I now have the Pennine Way under my belt and have planned this expedition so meticulously, but I do have mixed emotions about leaving the family behind. It’s not the pater familias off to war, but there’s an element of that in the sense of having a job to do, almost a duty, albeit a self-imposed one.
It’s not long before I’m reassuring myself that Liz wouldn’t have been able to cope with the paths, that I’d have had to hold her hand and coax her, foot by foot, along the scary bits and that, with 15 miles to cover, we’d have taken all day and most of the evening to complete it. She suffers from acrophobia, not to be confused with vertigo and, while she’s made progress in combating the fear inland on hills and mountains, she still doesn’t cope at all well when there’s water below. Sadly that puts paid to all thought of us doing the Pembrokeshire Coast Path together.
As for the overall state of the paths on this first southern section of the SWCP, they’re a bit of a curate’s egg; besides the notorious rollercoasters, there are long stretches where it’s impossible to establish a rhythm in your stride because you’re repeatedly having to climb over or pick your way through rough, rocky passages. There are also overgrown areas where, if you’re wearing shorts, you tend to walk quite carefully to avoid, as best you can, nettles, thistles and brambles. The worst bits are where you have the three combined – flanking vegetation spreading over and disguising the uneven, rocky surface on a steep ascent or descent. It goes without saying that the stupendous views provide ample compensation, and at least the paths are dry.
I’m neither a twitcher nor a snapper, so I’m not massively excited to see a small flock of choughs, although I confess I do find them rather dapper in their matching red bills and legs; nor am I disappointed that I only have a point-and-shoot phone on which to capture them.
I’m more interested in starting a series of photos of arches to compare with the iconic Durdle Door:
Soon after passing by the Minack Theatre and its visiting hordes again, I reach Penberth Cove, which doesn’t particularly stand out from all the other tiny fishing settlements except, perhaps, for its ford and stepping stones, but is of interest because my mother-in-law’s maiden name was Penberthy.
As I cross the stepping stones there appears, from the cottage in front, the large, gaudy figure of a man, evidently a local resident rather than an emmet. I greet him, then explain my interest in Penberth, to which he responds with a wiki-esque account of the surnames associated with the hamlet of Penberth, among which there is no Penberthy. He assures me that they would have originated from up near St Just, implying, in his denial and disdain, that they would therefore be foreign interlopers. Unsure what treatment the locals might have in store for those related by marriage to the enemy, I hurry on, climbing steeply out of the cove.
I’d earlier passed an amiable pair of middle-aged German hikers, who now catch up with me as I stop for coffee and cake chosen from the irresistable array on offer at the Lamorna Cove café. They, presumably not having loaded themselves with breakfasts of YHA proportions, order a light lunch each. I press on, passing through Mousehole and on past Newlyn, to reach Penzance. It’s occurred to me that, as the hostel I’ve booked is some way out of the town centre, I might conserve both energy and money by buying food and using the self-catering kitchen there, so want to reach the Lidl store I spotted yesterday before it closes at 4pm. I invariably find an excuse, such as this, for increasing my pace and marching against the clock, and lo! there I am at Lidl before 3.30. I stock up on calories and beer, then walk along the esplanade as far as the Lido, which Liz and the boys will have left some hours earlier. I consult Viewranger to see where I need to be and, finding that the youth hostel is located on the north western edge of town, I head in that direction, skirting the main shopping streets which I’d seen the previous day, and discover one or two gems:
The Admiral Benbow pub, too is full of character in terms of the plethora of artefacts inside and, inevitably I suppose, a couple of colourful characters too. After downing two pints it occurs to me that the miles I cover after reaching my destination don’t seem to count in the same way as the miles along the SWCP; even when you meander around the town carrying your 30lb backpack (actually 25lb after the water and daily rations have been consumed), you relax, your aches and pains fade away as they do when the day job’s done and the evening begins.
Even so, the mile back out to the hostel is a long one. I check in, shower, change, then head for the kitchen. The only people in the dining room, as I eat my moussaka and sup my ale, are a middle-aged couple from New Zealand who say they’re over here because they like the rights of way in this country and all the established trails. I ask them about hiking in New Zealand and they say that not only are the footpaths not there, not only are the landowners opposed to their creation, but there’s no infrastructure, no network of settlements to provide food supplies or accommodation. On the subject of landowners and farmers, I suggest that they should become active and organise a mass trespass to push through legislation for open access, but they’re horrified at the idea; it transpires that they own a farm themselves! I leave and head for the lounge, where three people are quietly reading. I join them, attempting to read more of ‘Tess of the d’Urbervilles’ on my Kindle app but, before long, the New Zealand farmer’s wife enters scene left and, without consultation, turns on the television and tunes in to something mindless. Within two minutes she has the room to herself. I head for bed.
White Acorns 